


The Shadows I Live With Are Numberless

by mardia



Series: Reichenbach Falls [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: Olympia sits up and stares at her. “Bev. It’s been a month, and you’re still flooding the city four days out of seven. We can’tleavewhen you’re still like this.”(Peter is gone, and Beverley isn't coping well.)





	The Shadows I Live With Are Numberless

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from another Billie Holliday song, and once again, thanks to jamjarring for betaing. 
> 
> Once again, I am very sorry.

Beverley moves back out of her mother’s house a week after the funeral, but it doesn’t matter; her sisters follow her back to her home and camp out there instead. 

Beverley’s dimly aware that she should feel grateful, but all she can feel is frustrated. She wants quiet and solitude, but what she’s got is Rom taking up space on her couch, Chelsea and Olympia sleeping on the floor, Fleet coming by daily with more and more groceries until her fridge is overflowing with organic vegetables and various home-cooked meals. Through the heavy fog that follows her everywhere, Beverley’s tried gentle hints, and then not-so-gentle hints, and finally one morning when she drags herself to the living room and trips over Chelsea’s feet again, she finally snaps and barks out, “All right, that’s it, you need to leave.”

But that just gets Olympia lifting the braids off her face and muzzily asking, “What?”

Beverley reaches for whatever scraps of patience she’s still got buried somewhere, and says as calmly as she’s able to, “Look. This is really sweet of you, but I don’t need babysitters anymore, and I don’t need to be watched twenty-four hours a day, so if you could just _please_ clear off--”

Olympia just groans and flops back against the makeshift nest of pillows and blankets. “Come on, Bev, don’t be stupid, we’re not going anywhere.”

Beverley snaps. “Yes, you are,” she says, loudly enough that Chelsea jerks awake and blinks at all of them. “It’s _my house_ and if I say I want you gone--”

Olympia sits up and stares at her. “Bev. It’s been a month, and you’re still flooding the city four days out of seven. We can’t _leave_ when you’re still like this.”

Beverley has no idea what her face does in response to that, but it has Chelsea scrambling to her feet and murmuring, in a very not-Chelsea way, that she’ll just make them all some tea, that should make everyone feel settled--

Because that’s exactly what Beverley needs, to settle down into a reality where Peter Grant is dead and gone. And as if it’s just happened yesterday, as if she can still hear him screaming--she can, she can, she can always hear it, the echo follows her everywhere she goes--Beverley swallows back a sob, and somewhere in the house there are pipes groaning, water rushing in, and Olympia looks at her in alarm and says, “Bev, _don’t_.”

Beverley swallows it back, and the pipes settle. “I’m fine,” she says distantly. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

Absolutely none of them, Beverley included, believe a word of it. 

*

Beverley is doing a great job of screening her calls these days. Almost nothing makes it through. There are a few people though, that she’ll pick up the phone for every time, without hesitation. And so it goes on Wednesday morning, when Beverley is doing the very important job of staring blindly up at her ceiling when her phone starts vibrating angrily on her desk.

It keeps ringing, and when Beverley snatches the phone up to hit ignore, she stares blankly at the name on the screen before slowly hitting the accept button. 

“Hello?”

Mama Grant’s voice is low and tired on the other end. “Hello, Beverley. How are you?”

The way she says it isn’t a platitude, she’s asking like she really wants to know. Beverley swallows. “Not great,” she admits, biting her lip. “You?”

“About the same,” Mama Grant says in that weary voice. “Are you free today?”

“I am,” Beverley says, slowly. 

“Come by my flat today,” Mama Grant says. “There are some things I should give you.”

For one second, Beverley has the wild thought of refusing to come--Mama Grant’s been clearing out Peter’s belongings at the Folly, with help from Molly and Abigail. Maybe in a month she’ll want to look at Peter’s things, his shirts, his old books, tickets from a movie they both saw last year. But right now, when the loss of him feels like a gaping wound—

But it’s Peter’s mother, and Beverley can’t even conceive of saying no to her.

“Yeah,” Beverley says, clearing her throat. “Yeah, of course, what time would you like me to come by?”

*

The first thing Beverley notices as Abigail lets her into Mama Grant’s flat is the silence. No television playing in the background, no jazz music to be heard, just an eerie, still silence, and the hollow-eyed woman waiting for Beverley on the couch. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mama Grant says. “Come here and sit down.”

Beverley takes a seat next to her and, after a momentary pause, takes Mama Grant’s hand in hers. “Have you been eating?” she asks quietly. After Peter’s father had died last year, Peter was obsessed with making sure his mum was taking care of herself, bringing groceries over for months, not to mention Molly’s care packages--

But Peter isn’t here, and there’s a new thinness to Mama Grant’s face that Beverley doesn’t like. 

Mama Grant waves her hand dismissively at the question. “My stomach’s been bothering me lately.”

“Ginger’s good for that,” Beverley replies, not missing a beat. “I’ll bring you some ginger beer next time.”

“That can wait,” Mama Grant says firmly, before seeming to falter. “Right now, there’s...there’s something I have to give you. I’ve been at the Folly this past week, going through Peter’s things.”

Beverley flinches at that, a little, and knows that both Mama Grant and Abigail can see her do it. “You don’t need to--”

“I’m giving away most of his clothes to charity,” Mama Grant continues, in that deliberate way of hers where you know you’d have as much luck diverting her attention as you would in diverting the route of an oncoming train. “You’re free to pick out anything of his that you like, of course, and I’m sure Abigail will say the same for his books--”

“Take anything you want,” Abigail says quickly.

“But there is something that belongs to you,” Mama Grant finishes, and moves to take something out of her pocket. 

The second Beverley sees that small velvet box, she forgets how to breathe. It’s only when she looks up and catches Mama Grant’s worried gaze that she thinks, _breathe. Come on, breathe._

“I didn’t know if this would make things worse,” Mama Grant admits. “But--he loved you. He was thinking of your future together and he bought this for you, and I thought...I thought you deserved to see the proof of that.”

And with that, she places the box in Beverley’s palm. 

Beverley already has an idea of what to expect, when she cracks that small box open. They’d been talking about it, after all, her and Peter, musing together about the future they’d have, the future Beverley wanted--

And now here she is, staring down at the engagement ring he never got to give her, her vision blurring from tears, and when she feels Mama Grant lightly touch the top of her bowed head, that’s when Beverley breaks down completely, until Mama Grant is gathering her up into an embrace as Beverley folds into her and weeps.

*

Given how her day has gone, Beverley is not exactly pleased to come home and find Fleet and Effra cooking up a storm. 

“Bev!” Effra says, turning to face her with a smile that only looks a little anxious. “We’re making biryani.”

Beverley purses her lips for a second, but says, “That sounds good.”

She must not sound enthusiastic enough because Effra’s smile falters a little, and through the heavy fog that Beverley constantly carries with her these days, she feels a twinge of guilt. So she sits down on one of the kitchen stools and engages in conversation, asks after Fleet’s kids and about the music festival Effra and Oberon are planning to attend next weekend. 

She still finds herself having to work to pay attention to the answers. It’s not that Beverly doesn’t care about what’s happening in her sisters’ lives, it’s not that she means to be self-absorbed. It’s just that everything seems to take more of an effort than what she has to give. 

The velvet box is burning a hole in Bev’s pocket, but she doesn’t pull it out.

Once they sit down to eat, it doesn’t take Beverley long to realize that Effra and Fleet are building up to something. And right after Beverley’s complimented the cooking again, Effra clears her throat and says, “Thanks, Bev. You know, if you’re after some really great food, Ty’s having a dinner party this weekend, and it’s being catered--”

“No,” Beverley says without a pause, staring down at her plate. 

There’s a tiny pause, before Fleet says, in the gentle tone she’s adopted when talking to Beverley and has used continuously since March, “Babe. You’ve been avoiding Ty.”

Beverley can’t deny it; it’s true, after all. She pokes at the last piece of curried chicken on her plate. “It’s nothing personal,” she tries, her throat tight. “I just don’t want to hear it from her right now.”

Fleet’s forehead is furrowed as she asks, “What on earth do you think she’s going to say?”

The words come out as if of their own will. “That she told me so. That she always knew this is how it would turn out.”

There is a beat of perfect, aghast silence. 

“Bev, you don’t mean that,” Effra says finally, sounding horrified. “Ty wouldn’t.”

Beverley’s stomach is twisting, and she wishes she hadn’t eaten so much just now. But every time she thinks of Ty’s composed face at the funeral, the grave looks she’d given Beverley, her arm threaded through her husband’s as she walked up to take her seat--

It’s not fair, maybe. But Beverley doesn’t really know what’s fair anymore. 

“Maybe she won’t say it,” Beverley concedes finally. “But I’ll hear it anyway, no matter what she says.”

Fleet and Effra share another look at this, and then Fleet folds her hands on the table and asks, “Have you considered seeing someone? A grief counsellor or someone.”

“Sure,” Beverley says, her voice flat. “Find me one who can wipe the memory of Peter screaming in agony from my brain and I’ll sign right up.”

“Bev,” Effra says, but Beverley just pushes her chair back and gets to her feet, collecting the dirty dishes on the table so she can wash them in the sink.

Fleet and Effra don’t leave, but by tacit agreement, they don’t bring up either therapy or Ty again, which is exactly what Beverley wants.

*

Two nights after that ill-fated dinner, Beverley has finally managed to wave her sisters off the and is facing a quiet night at home, where she will finally be alone.

So of course it figures that this is another night where she dreams of Peter. 

It’s not a nightmare. A nightmare would have been, if not easier, then at least more straightforward. 

In the dream, Beverley is alone on her couch, watching the news--some poker-faced presenter is discussing the recent divorces in the royal family, and Beverley feels a sense of shock at the idea of Wills and Kate splitting up, when there’s a knock at the front door. 

Beverley gets up from the house, noticing the sudden downpour through the front window, rain coming down in sheets--and when she opens the door, standing on the front step, drenched and smiling, healthy and whole and _alive_ \-- is Peter, her Peter. 

“Oh,” Beverley breathes out, her knees buckling, except that Peter’s reaching out for her, his arms strong and solid, and he’s smiling at her, his beautiful smile, drops of rain trailing down his face, catching on his long lashes and beading in his thick hair. 

“Bev, Bev, I’m back now,” Peter promises, his voice full of joy and exactly how she remembers it to be. “It was all a mistake, I made it back, can you believe--”

His arms are wrapping around her waist now, pulling her in, and Beverley feels the air leave her body as she leans in, waiting to feel him against her, waiting for his mouth against hers, waiting to hear his heartbeat in her ears again--

Except all she can hear is the rain hammering against the rooftop and the windows of her house, and dimly, as she starts to wake up, Beverley realizes she’s lying on her bed, the sheets cool to the touch when she reaches out to the other side, because no one is lying there next to her, because Peter’s not _here_ , none of it was a mistake after all, Peter’s gone, he’s gone--

Beverley starts to sob, quietly at first, and then she starts to shake with it, curling up into a ball as she cries, eyes squeezed shut, trying so hard to hang onto the memory of the dream, of that moment when Peter’s rain-chilled skin touched hers. 

*

Beverley starts staying up later at night after that. She wheedles Maxim into picking up a large carton of energy drinks for her from Aldi, and ignores his pinched mouth and worried eyes when he drops it off. He offers to stick around after, tidy the house, but she manages to shoo him off. 

Her sisters are still coming around with food on a regular basis, but Beverley’s mostly convinced them she doesn’t need company at night, which means that when Beverley stays up half the night, cracking open energy drinks and watching whatever happens to be on TV in the middle of the night, she has nobody around to witness it. 

She could use her Netflix account, to be fair, but she mostly doesn’t bother; the thousands of options on Netflix oddly seem like too much work to sort through, and so she settles for mindlessly watching whatever comes up on the TV, on whatever channel happens to be on. 

But tonight, the latest trashy reality show is failing to grip her attention, and so Beverley's scrolling through her phone's photo library out of some masochistic urge. So of course this means that she's looking at photos of Peter. Peter at dinner pulling a funny face for the camera, Peter lying on the banks of her river, face tilted up to catch the sun's rays, Peter holding her in an embrace, his chin tucked over her shoulder as they both smile. 

A thousand moments that she'd preserved, never realizing there would be an end to them. 

Her eyes are stinging, but Beverley keeps going on, ignoring both her own better judgment and Ty's voice in her head going, _Haven't you had enough, darling?_

No. No, she hasn't.

She's gone back far enough in the photo album to come across the party they'd thrown when Peter had made detective--Beverley had had her phone out for practically the entire day, taking photo after photo of Peter until he'd finally covered her lens with one hand, laughing as he told her to ease up. "It's not like I'm David Beckham, Bev," she remembers him saying.

Beverley has finally paused on a photograph of Peter standing at the grill with that ridiculous apron Bev had gotten him as a joke--except that in this photo, Peter's not looking at the camera, or at the grill, he's deep in conversation with Nightingale. Nightingale's standing with his face to the camera, looking as casual as Beverley's ever seen him--which just means he's got his suit jacket off. That's not what gets Beverley's attention, nor the way Nightingale's got his hands in his pockets. It's the smile on his face.

He'd been practically bursting with pride that day, Beverley remembers. Not in an obvious way, not so you'd really even notice, unless you knew him and Peter well enough, but it had been clear to her. 

She hopes that Peter had seen it too that day, that he'd seen his parents' pride in him, and Nightingale's pleased satisfaction, that for all of Peter's self-deprecation and vulnerabilities, that he’d never spent a moment really doubting--

It’s a futile wish. Whatever Peter knew or didn’t know died with him in that warehouse.

Beverley’s gaze is still caught by the image on her screen, on Nightingale’s smiling face in the photo. 

Without thinking--without letting herself think--Beverley goes to her list of contacts and puts her thumb to Nightingale’s name. It’s not until the phone’s already ringing that Beverley’s better judgment comes into play, as she finally remembers how late it is, that she doesn’t know if Nightingale is even still up, the fact that she hasn’t even spoken to him since the funeral.

Just as Bev’s telling herself to hang up the phone and go the fuck to bed, Nightingale’s picked up on the other end, his voice full of worry as he asks, “Beverley? Is everything all right?”

Beverley’s mind goes blank. “I’m fine,” she says idiotically. “Just--thought I’d call.”

“Ah,” Nightingale says, but before the silence can become truly awkward, he says, “I’m glad you did.”

Beverley exhales. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be up, I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Oh, I believe I’ll be up and about for a few hours yet,” Nightingale assures her. His voice sounds different than what Beverley’s used to, a touch slower and _definitely_ more posh than normal--it’s as though he’s about to start auditioning for the newest series of The Crown. 

Or, Beverley realizes with a faint start of surprise, it’s that he sounds exactly like her brother-in-law George when he tries to match Oberon drink for drink and gets exactly drunk enough that he starts, in Effra’s words, “oozing public-schoolboy poshness”. 

It’s too easy to picture now, Nightingale sitting alone in some dark study at the Folly, a glass of expensive alcohol in hand, and the bottle within easy reach. 

She must have let the silence stretch for too long, because Nightingale prods after a moment, “Beverley?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Beverley says quickly. “I just...got distracted by the television. Stupid dating show is on right now.”

“Mm,” Nightingale says, and then confides in a rush, “I’ve found myself watching Sky Sports in the coach house these days. I now know more about the Premier League than I ever hoped to in one lifetime.”

Beverley snickers at his tone of voice, but that fades as Nightingale admits next, “I’ve even watched a Tottenham match or two.”

Beverley swallows. “I never really understood why Peter would never admit to being a Spurs fan. It’s not as if he did a particularly good job hiding it. Or like he didn’t have far more embarrassing interests.”

She wonders if Nightingale will shy away from her saying Peter’s name out loud, except that Nightingale says thoughtfully, “I never understood the things he’d get embarrassed by. Sometimes, you know, I’d hear bits of the music he’d play on his music player when he was studying, those girl groups with the colorful clothes--”

Beverley laughs. “That’s _every_ girl group.”

“And ages later, we were in the car driving somewhere and one of their songs came on the radio, and I mentioned it quite casually, ‘There’s that group you like’. Peter’s entire face just went beet red, I’d never seen him blush that much, it was extraordinary. He was practically spluttering.”

Beverley laughs, and for once--for once it doesn’t hurt to think of Peter, to imagine him flushing and trying to deny his childhood love for the Spice Girls (Beverley would bet _anything_ it was the Spice Girls, Peter was totally unabashed when it came to his love of old-school Sugababes and Keisha Buchanan in particular) while Nightingale grew increasingly baffled. 

“He’d hate this show I’m watching now,” Beverley admits. “I don’t even like it myself, I just needed--”

“Something to distract you,” Nightingale offers. “Something to fill up the silence.”

Beverley swallows, and doesn’t deny it. “Are you--” _Are you all right? Are you drunk right now?_ Beverley can’t imagine asking Nightingale either of those questions, and not just because she knows the answers. “Do you maybe want to drop by my place tomorrow?” she asks, changing tack with speed. “If you’re free.”

She doesn’t say she could use the company, she doesn’t say that it sounds like _he_ could use the company. But from the speed with which Nightingale says, “Yes, that would be quite welcome,” Beverley can tell she doesn’t have to. 

“Good,” Beverley says, decisively. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow night--is seven o’clock okay?”

“Seven it is,” Nightingale says. Then he chuckles, and adds, “I’ll be sure to bring some gin with me as well--a proper offering.”

*

Beverley spends the next afternoon grimly getting her house into order for Nightingale’s visit. By the time she’s finished, the house is at least in a state that Beverley is comfortable with, even if it wouldn’t pass muster with any of Beverley’s older sisters, or her mother--or with Peter, once. 

But if Nightingale has any opinions on Beverley’s housekeeping, he gives no sign when he shows up at her door, exactly at seven. He looks mostly the same as ever--if Beverley looks closely, she can see that his face is perhaps a little thinner, maybe a little more drawn. He’s also carrying two Tesco bags with him, the contents clinking softly. 

“How much gin did you bring?” Beverley asks curiously, as she steps aside to let him in. 

“It’s not just gin,” Nightingale says. “I also brought champagne as well--I thought we could have some French 75s, if you’re amenable.”

Beverley blinks, and then she starts to smile. “That sounds excellent,” she says. “Don’t know how many clean glasses I have though.”

“I think we’ll manage,” Nightingale says easily; he’s already moved to the kitchen island to start unpacking the bags. 

Beverley stands there for a moment looking at him, at how he should seem totally out of place and yet doesn’t somehow, and then she turns away to close the door. 

*

It takes Beverley what feels like no time at all to start getting drunk. Nightingale, as it turns out, has a very strong hand with the gin, and an even stronger one with the champagne--Beverley’s not at all a lightweight, but she is definitely feeling the alcohol. 

She’s not sloppy with it, she’s just feeling loose and floaty where she’s curled up in her usual corner of the couch, with Nightingale sitting on the other seat, legs stretched out in front of him, his suit jacket carefully hanging over the back of a nearby chair. 

Beverley had decided to be kind and not put on the first thing she saw, instead she put on a BBC documentary about the Romanovs, reasoning that at least (for the most part) it was set in a historical period that Nightingale hadn’t lived through, and wouldn’t bring up any awkward memories. The fact that it was the sort of thing Peter liked to watch to wind down after a long day is mostly not the point. 

“How has Molly been doing?” she asks. 

“Oh, fine, fine,” Nightingale says, sipping at his drink. “Experimenting in the kitchen a lot these days. I’m afraid I haven’t been doing her efforts justice.”

“You do look skinnier,” Beverley says, eyeing him up. 

“As do you,” Nightingale says, without heat to it, and then he blinks and glances at his drink, which is already half empty and also not his first of the evening. 

“Oh, I know,” Beverley says. “You’re at least more honest about it than my sisters, they just keep showing up with food, or using my kitchen as a testing ground for new recipes except that all the food ends up in my refrigerator afterwards. The fridge is overflowing at this point.” She pauses and concedes, “It’s nice of them to do, I do know that.”

“Kindness is difficult to tolerate sometimes,” Nightingale says, and Beverley exhales in relief at that, at the feeling of finally being _understood._

Nightingale continues, saying in that cut-glass accent that’s only gotten stronger as the evening’s gone on, “Alexander and Miriam are practically bombarding me with advice for this inquiry, and I know I ought to appreciate it, and yet--” He lifts a hand up, the gesture elegant and eloquent in equal measure. 

“What inquiry?” Beverley prods. 

“Nothing, it’s just a formality,” Nightingale says, his tone dismissive, but his answer comes a little too quickly for it to be believable. 

Beverley puts it aside--for now--and looks at her now empty glass. “I’m getting myself another drink, do you want a top-up?”

“If you’re offering,” Nightingale says easily, handing her his own glass. Beverley takes it and gets to her feet, wobbling a little. “Maybe I’ll microwave us some food while I’m at it,” she mutters. 

The food does help soak up some of the booze, but the drinks they have with the food probably don’t help matters. By the time they’ve finished eating, Beverley’s resting her suddenly heavy head against the back of the couch, and Nightingale’s lounging in a way she’s never seen from him before, his tie loose and his hair falling over his forehead. 

“Have you talked to Peter’s mum lately?” Beverley asks, while Lucy Worsley breaks down the mess that was Russia after the Crimean War. 

“From time to time,” Nightingale says. “It’s difficult, but Abigail keeps me updated.” He looks over at her, and something in his face lets Beverley know that he knows why she’s asking. 

“She gave me the engagement ring,” Beverley says, trying her best not to let her face crumple, but Nightingale’s expression melts with sympathy and understanding. 

“Beverley--”

“I haven’t even told my sisters about it yet,” Beverley admits, her voice catching. “I can’t--they keep waiting for me to talk to them, and I can’t, none of them get it, they still have their partners and their friends, they’ve never lost anyone before. Even Mum still has her old nursing-school friends kicking about, but Peter is--and I have to keep going regardless, I keep having to feel like this--”

She shuts herself up at last, jaw clenched to hold back the stem of words, the sobs she can feel rising up in her chest. Once she can finally speak, Beverley stares down at her hands and asks, “Do you ever get over feeling this way?”

“No,” Nightingale says slowly. “You carry it with you, until it--it changes you, and then it slowly starts to fade.”

That’s what she’s really afraid of, Beverley thinks. She’s afraid of who she’ll be once this first paralysis of grief ends. She’s afraid of Peter fading away into a static memory, an image from a photograph, rather than a living, breathing person who ate and drank and swore, who stubbed his toe in the dark and who sang in the bath. 

As Beverley scrubs at her face in an attempt to pull herself together, she can feel Nightingale watching her. “How did you like the ring?” he asks at last, and as Beverley lifts her head in disbelief, Nightingale’s alcohol-induced flush only gets deeper. He explains, apologetically, “Peter was very nervous about it, he wanted to find you something you would like. I just...wondered if he had, that’s all.”

“It’s great,” Beverley tells him, with a laugh that edges on a sob. “It’s a beautiful ring and it fits me perfectly, I love it--and I can’t even look at it without breaking down, it’s insane. I feel insane right now, I feel like a lunatic and I can’t stop.”

“You’re not a lunatic,” Nightingale tells her quietly. 

“You sure about that?” Beverley asks, wiping futilely at her eyes. 

“The mind--it fixates on the oddest details,” he tells her. “I still keep thinking about--about my plans for a holiday, for God’s sake, as if I didn’t have much bigger things to worry over.”

“What holiday?” Beverley asks. 

“It was nothing concrete,” Nightingale says, demurring, but looks over at her and visibly reconsiders, saying slowly, “It was just...just that I’d had this idea in my head, that once Chorley was caught, once things had settled down, I might take a holiday.”

“Where did you want to go?” Beverley asks. 

“I was thinking of Japan, I hadn’t been there yet. Or perhaps the western half of the United States, I’d always had a vague idea of seeing a redwood forest someday. The location was never really the point, though.”

“What was the point?”

“The point,” Nightingale takes a deep breath, and says, “The point was that I would be able to _leave._ That I could...walk out of the Folly and it’d still be standing when I left. I’d leave and come back, a month later, maybe longer, and _he_...he would be there in my place, running everything like clockwork. Perhaps he’d have a wedding ring on his finger and children he went home to, I always liked the thought of that.”

Beverley bites her lip and Nightingale glances at her, his face full of apology, but she waves it off. “No, it’s okay, keep going.”

“He’d have the power of the Metropolitan Police Force and he’d have you and a network of allies and colleagues and--” Nightingale gestures with his hand, as if to show and to wipe away the future they’d all believed in, the future that Peter had worked so hard for. The future that Beverley still wants so badly she can barely breathe when she thinks of it. “But now all that’s gone, and instead of doing what I ought to do, I just...keep thinking of it.”

Her throat aching, Beverley hesitates, then carefully reaches out and grips his hand. Nightingale jumps a little at that, and Beverley has one moment of worrying she’s gone too far, and then he squeezes her hand back and doesn’t let go. His fingers are warm and his grip is solid and so reassuring, and Beverley holds on tighter in her relief and shared sorrow. 

“I’m sorry you won’t see a redwood forest anytime soon,” Beverley says softly.

He squeezes her hand again, and says, “I’m sorry you don’t get to show off that ring.”

*

Beverley wakes up the next morning to the sound of water moving in her pipes. 

She lies back in her bed, keeping her eyes shut until the dull throbbing in her temples fades, sipping at the glass of water that was thoughtfully left for her on her bedside table. She dimly remembers Nightingale helping her to her bed last night, the sheets being drawn over her as she’d drunkenly made him promise he’d stay the night in her spare room rather than try and brave the night bus back to the Folly.

So that is definitely Nightingale running water somewhere in the house, and once Beverley’s headache is under control, she lurches out of bed, in search of Nightingale and paracetamol. 

She finds him in the kitchen, washing her dirty dishes. He’s in his shirtsleeves with an apron wrapped around his waist, looking incredibly put together by the standards of somehow who spend all night drinking champagne and gin, and incredibly rumpled by his own standards. 

“How are you feeling?” Nightingale asks without turning his head--he must have heard her coming, and Beverley is forcibly reminded of how no one can sneak up on her brother-in-law Oberon either. 

“All right, my head doesn’t feel so bad,” Beverley says. “Thank you for the glass of water.”

“Of course,” Nightingale says, his head still bowed as he scrubs at a plate. 

Beverley doesn’t move for a moment, she just watches him and thinks things over. 

When she finally speaks, it’s a deliberate choice. “What’s going on with the inquiry?”

Nightingale’s shoulders stiffen. “Nothing at all. Merely a formality.”

Beverley keeps her voice mild. “You’re not the worst liar I’ve seen, but you still aren’t brilliant at it.”

Nightingale jerks a little at that, finally looking at her over his shoulder. 

It’s a deliberate choice, what she’s doing now. But if Beverley’s honest, the choice was one she already made last night, when she held Nightingale’s hand, when she invited him into her house and took his offerings, when she let herself be _seen_ , and she saw him in return. 

“Thomas,” Beverley says, very carefully, and he blinks in surprise, turning to face her head on now, wet hands dripping on her floor for a moment before he remembers to grab a tea towel. “Thomas, I need you to ask for my help, and then I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

Nightingale pauses before answering, and then he says very cautiously, “I’m not sure that I should.”

At least he’s no longer denying that he is in trouble. “Of course you should,” Beverley says. “One, it would be incredibly stupid not to, and you’re not stupid.” Nightingale’s mouth twitches at this, which is an encouraging sign. 

Encouraging enough that Beverley can say next, “And Peter would be furious with me if I left you alone in the lurch. And he’d be just as furious with you for not accepting help when you need it.”

It does hurt, saying it out loud like that. It just doesn’t hurt as much as it would’ve yesterday. 

Nightingale goes still at that, and he doesn’t say a word. Beverley doesn’t try to rush him, she just waits for him to finally speak, and for her to be proven right. 

She’s not disappointed on either count.

*

Beverley doesn’t get to her sister’s house until late that night. George is in the country for once, and he looks incredibly startled to open the door and find Beverley there, gaping at her for a half-second before he pulls himself together and says, “Beverley, come in, come in. Is, ah, is Cecelia expecting you?”

“No,” Beverley says coolly, slipping past him into the entryway. “I just thought I’d stop by. Is she in tonight?”

“Certainly,” George says. He turns to the intercom and presses a button, calling into it, “Darling, Beverley’s come round for a visit.”

He ushers Beverley to the kitchen, offering her food and drink, “Tea, perhaps? Or something stronger if you like, I can fetch it from my study.” Beverley waves him off, idly noting that he seems...squirrlier than usual. 

He puts the kettle on anyway, and visibly hesitates before turning to her and asking, in an earnest tone that catches Beverley off-guard, “How have you been doing?”

“I’m fine,” Beverley says, slightly thrown and wishing she wasn’t--she’s got goals for tonight, and getting rattled right at the start is not what she wants.

“Good,” George says, still in that earnest way. “Cecelia--well, she’s been worried. She’ll be glad to see you.”

The worst part of it is that he’s not wrong. Ty’s face does light up when she walks in and sees Beverley, and when she kisses Beverley’s cheek to say hello, it feels honestly comforting in a way Beverley didn’t expect. 

“Have you eaten?” Ty asks her briskly as she pulls back; George has excused himself with a minimum of fuss. “We’ve had dinner already but I can warm something up--”

“No, I’m fine,” Beverley says, and Ty gives her a deeply skeptical look. 

“You don’t look--” Ty checks herself, and Beverley watches it happen with a faint sense of surprise. “Well. If you’re sure.”

Beverley looks at her sister and says, raising an eyebrow at her, “Have Fleet and Effra been lecturing you about me?”

Ty purses her lips. “It would take less time to tell you who hasn’t given me a lecture at this point. Honestly. As if I need to be told how to behave.” Beverley snorts, and Ty points at her. “Don’t you start.”

Beverley just grins, and for just that second, she lets herself hope that maybe this conversation will go better than she expects. 

“Listen,” Beverley says, taking a deep breath as she dives right in, “I didn’t come by just for a chat, I need you to do something for me.”

Other sisters might take offense at that, but Ty’s eyes brighten with interest. “What is it?”

Beverley looks her sister square in the face. “I need you to call Deputy Commissioner Folsom off. I need this inquiry against Nightingale and the Folly to end.”

It’s like a wave reaching shore, the way that all expression is wiped off Tyburn’s face. “No,” she says after a moment, blankly. “Beverley--of course not.”

Beverley takes a deep breath through her nose, and lets it out before replying. “Why not?”

“Beverley,” Ty says, in her most reasonable tone of voice, logical and matter-of-fact and perfectly designed to set Beverley on edge. “Beverley, it’s not as simple as me calling Richard and telling him to make it go away--”

“Really?” Beverley asks, folding her arms. “Because I’ve seen you put the fix in for things far bigger than this.”

“Not when it’s this far gone,” Ty retorts. “Not when there’s been a swatch of chaos across London, millions in property damage, multiple criminal investigations, and two dead bodies--”

“One,” Beverley says, very quietly. “One dead body, Ty.”

Ty falls silent at this, and Beverley can feel herself going rigid at the pity in her sister’s face. “Of course.”

“So you won’t do it then,” Beverley says, quietly. 

Someone who wasn’t listening for it would miss Ty’s quiet, exasperated sigh at that. “Bev. I can’t do it. Even if I were to call Richard up tonight and say, ‘Right, I want this to disappear,’ he couldn’t make it happen, it’s too bloody big for that now. A promising young police detective is missing, presumed dead, a notorious terrorist was found _beheaded_ and his partner-in-crime who is also a rogue wizard has disappeared without a trace. This is the sort of catastrophic mess that not even I can cover up, and even if I could--”

“Even if you could, you wouldn’t,” Beverley finishes, meeting her sister’s gaze. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Ty doesn’t answer at first, and then she lifts her chin. “No,” she admits. “Even if I could save Nightingale, I wouldn’t do it.”

“So your solution is to let the Folly just crumble,” Beverley says, and she can hear the sharpness in her own voice, the emotion in it, and is furious at herself and at Tyburn, Ty who won’t listen, who had her mind made up before Beverley even walked in--

“My solution,” Ty says, firmly, “--is to see the Folly reformed for good, Beverley, Nightingale is a broken man, anyone can see it--”

“Don’t,” Beverley says, and wonder of wonders, Ty actually comes up short at that. “Don’t talk about him like that, you have no idea what it--”

“Beverley,” Tyburn says, her voice gentler now. “Sweetheart, I know you don’t want to talk about Peter with me,” and Beverley flinches back at that. “I understand, I do, but you have to hear me--Peter was brilliant, it’s true, the smartest thing that Thomas Nightingale has done in decades was to bring him on as an apprentice, but he’s...he’s _gone,_ and every bit of reform he managed to eke out will simply wither on the vine.”

“You don’t know that,” Beverley says, remembering Nightingale’s hand in hers, the way he’d stood in her kitchen and lifted his chin and said, with simple honesty, _You’re right. I can’t do it alone--not then, and certainly not now._ “It’s different, even with--even if Peter’s gone, that doesn’t mean Nightingale’s just going to revert to how it used to be.”

Ty’s eyes are sympathetic, but Beverley knows her--all Tyburn’s sympathy is for Beverley, for her poor, grieving, emotionally distraught sister, and none of it is reserved for Nightingale, who spent weeks combing through rubble in the faintest of hopes that they’d find something, who Peter had loved and trusted and had faith in--

And Beverley, even now, maybe especially now, doesn’t think Peter was wrong for it. 

“There is no evidence to support that,” Ty says. “I’m sympathetic to Nightingale, of course, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s past time to see the Folly put into the hands of someone who knows how to run it.”

Beverley stares at her sister in disbelief. “Who the fuck do you think can do that? What, are you going to hand it over to that dodgy Lady Helena, let her run more medical experiments on people? Or maybe you have a list of Little Crocodiles in mind, more posh wankers with a thin veneer of modernity, just enough so you can lie and tell yourself they’re one of the good ones, they don’t have the same nasty prejudices--”

“Even if I did,” Ty says, a hint of temper finally starting to show at last, “They could hardly do worse than the man who sent both his apprentices to ruin.”

Beverley stops short, and breathes until the first wave of anger starts to recede. It takes a long while. 

“Peter wasn’t ruined,” she says, as evenly as she can manage it. “He made a choice to walk into that warehouse, he made a choice to go after Chorley, and if he’d made it out alive, you wouldn’t have breathed a word of criticism at someone finally managing to knock that fucker Chorley off and spare you the dirty work of doing it yourself.”

Tyburn’s mouth is pressed tightly together, nostrils flaring, and she doesn’t say a word. 

Beverley squares her shoulders. “It’s all right, Ty,” she says, feeling something settle inside of her with a faint click, like a key turning into a lock. “I came here as a courtesy, really. But if you can’t do it, you can’t do it, and that’s that.”

She chooses her tone to be as provocatively light as she can make it, and it works, as Ty’s eyes narrow and she stares at Beverley hard. 

“Beverley,” Ty says, with awful precision. “What exactly are you planning on doing?”

“Exactly what I think should be done,” Beverley says, picking up her purse. “Thanks for seeing me, Ty. Tell George I said good night.”

She walks out without a second glance for her sister, and if Beverley can hear the pipes in the house start to groan with a sudden, unexpected rush of water--well, she’s far too polite to mention it.

*

It takes a while to get back to her place from Ty’s, but for once, Beverley doesn’t mind the long drive. Her mind is busy humming with ideas, with plans, for the first time in--far too long.

It’s not that Beverley thinks Peter would have entirely approved of what she’s got in mind. Peter believed in the law, he believed that there was a right way to do things, even as his idealism was tempered with practicality it was still there, and Beverley had loved that about him. 

She’d loved everything about him. Loved him enough to want a future with him, to spend years carving out a space for the two of them, in the teeth of all expectations and in spite of centuries of tradition. She’d wanted the ring and the wedding dress and Peter’s solid warm body next to hers in bed, she wanted too-clever children with her eyes and his inquisitive nature. 

Beverley can’t have that. But she can do this at least, she can build a wall around the institution that Peter loved and worked so hard to save and improve, she can carve something out of the rubble--and maybe once that’s done, she’ll find herself again on the other side. 

She’s stopped at a red light when she digs out her phone and scrolls through her contact list, smiling as she finds the name she’s looking for. 

It goes to voicemail, but that’s fine. She’ll get a call back soon. 

“Hi, Sahra, it’s Beverley. I was hoping you might have some time free tomorrow so we could talk, Call me back and let me know, yeah? Oh, and before I forget--could you get me Inspector Seawoll’s number as well? I’d really like to speak to him.”

Beverley hangs up, and right as the light turns green, a snippet of a song comes into her head, circling over and over in an elusive refrain. 

“Dreaming, I was only dreaming,” she murmurs, but as she tries to think of where the line comes from, it slips through her mind, like fog receding from the morning sun.


End file.
